


First Name Agent, Last Name Washington

by illumynare



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 00:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13306332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: Five times Caboose called Wash “Church,” and one time he didn’t.





	First Name Agent, Last Name Washington

**Author's Note:**

> @redvsbluesecretsanta fic for @all-my-fandoms-are-killing-me, who requested Caboose + Wash. Huge, HUGE thanks to her for being so patient as I flailed my way through finishing this story. <3

1.

The first time that Caboose calls him “Church,” Wash just says, “Yeah?”

It’s 18 hours after Sidewinder. They’ve found an abandoned Sim Trooper base to hide at, and Wash is—

He’s _tired,_ with a paralyzing weariness that he’s never felt before. The “looks like you aren’t going to prison” adrenaline has all worn off. Even with the healing unit running at full power, he still hurts almost _everywhere_ from fighting the Meta.

(Meta. _Maine_. He can think the name, now that he’s dead—now that Wash doesn’t need to use him. Now that the Meta is not another obstacle between Wash and freedom, he can let himself wonder if his old friend was really all gone, or—)

He’s tired, but he can’t rest. The Reds and Blues gave him a suit of armor and helped him dodge the UNSC, they promised him a place on Blue Team, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to stab him in the back.

So he’s sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, trying not to sleep and trying not to panic and trying to understand what’s happened.

_You helped us, Wash—_ sure, but he’d helped South. He’d given the Project his entire fucking life. He’d given Epsilon—

“Hey, Church!”

“Yeah?” says Wash, turning around, only a little twitchy, because he knows that voice. It’s Caboose—out of his armor for the first time that Wash has ever seen, dark curls damp from the shower. 

Then his mind stutters, freezes. Rewinds.

_Hey, Church._

That wasn’t his name.

It wasn’t his name, but he said _yeah_ because he forgot. He _forgot_ and answered to the wrong name and _fuck fuck fuck they know they finally_ know—

He realizes that he’s on his feet, gun drawn.

“Oh!” says Caboose. “I did not know we were playing hide and seek.”

“ _What_?” Wash demands, his voice cracking. “What the hell—what are you—”

“DROP IT, MOTHERFUCKER,” Tucker yells, charging in through the doorway with his sword drawn.

He’s not trained like a Freelancer. It should be laughably easy for Wash to drop him, despite the glowing energy sword, and without even firing a bullet from his gun. Wash aims a kick at Tucker’s leg, meaning to send him sprawling—

But the exhaustion and the injuries are too much. Wash’s own leg gives out, and he tumbles to the ground. His gun skids across the floor.

Tucker grabs it, shutting off his sword. “What the _fuck_ were you doing?” he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

“Church and I were playing a game,” says Caboose, as cheerful as ever. “I won.”

“I’m not—” Wash starts, but then his mind roars with static and he can’t go on.

Not Church, not Epsilon, he’s not _he’s not,_ but the name _Wash_ feels heavy and foreign, and he is—he is—

He’s finished. That’s all he is, right now, same as on Sidewinder. Tired and finished, without the strength left to even pretend he knows his name.

“You tried to kill Caboose,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, uhhh, that is part of playing hide and seek,” Caboose says. “I find Church and then he tries to shoot me.”

Tucker glares at Caboose. “That isn’t Church, you idiot.”

Wash manages to find his voice and say, “He called me ‘Church.’”

In an instant, Tucker’s glare is turned on Wash. “So you decided to _fucking shoot him?”_

“I—”

Wash doesn’t know what he can say: there aren’t words for what it was like, waking up with two selves in his head, feeling that other self die, and then living with the memories. Knowing every moment of every day that if he ever let them know he remembered being Church/Alpha/Leonard/Epsilon, he would be killed.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t call the UNSC and put your ass in jail,” says Tucker.

“Uhhh, because he is Church?” Caboose offers. 

“I wasn’t asking you!”

“. . . I’m sorry,” Wash says helplessly. “I thought— Back in Freelancer, if I’d answered to that name, they would have killed me.”

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, right.” The he does a double-take, looking at Wash’s face. “Wait. Seriously?”

Wash’s nerves are buzzing with fear. It can’t be this easy—nobody ever believes anyone, not if they’re teammates, not if they’re friends—

“Yeah,” he says.

“Ugh,” says Tucker, and he relaxes, all the anger draining out of him. “You Freelancers are really fucked-up, you know that?”

“Yeah,” says Wash.

 

2.

The thing is, Wash’s job on Blue Team is just “pretend to be the Alpha AI,” and that’s . . . horrifyingly traumatic in a number of ways, but it’s also _boring._  

He already looked a member of the UNSC in the eye and answered to the name “Leonard Church.” He got away with it. Here at Blue Base? There’s nothing for him to do.

Wash can’t remember a single time in his life when he didn’t have a mission, a goal: get off that dirtball. Survive the war. Make it onto the Leaderboard. Burn down Freelancer. 

Now? He’s lost.

So he’s pried open the microwave and he’s trying to fix it, because the only other possible project is teaching Lavernius Tucker to act like a soldier, and fuck if he’s going to waste his time on that kind of hopeless cause.

“Church,” Caboose says from behind him.

_i am epsilonepsilonEPSILON i was leonard church we are BROKEN don’t say goodbye i hate goodbyes_

Wash curls his fingers into fists, wait for the memory to pass. For his thoughts to sound like his own again.

“Don’t call me that,” he grits out, turning to face Caboose, who is in full armor this time.

“Yeah, I don’t know if you noticed, but you are wearing Church’s armor and replacing him on Blue Team, so that kind of makes you Church.”

“But _I’m not—”_ Wash realizes his voice is rising and he chokes off the words. Tucker has the uncanny ability to appear any time he raises his voice to Caboose, and Wash is _really_ not in the mood to be reminded again that if he screws up too much, they’ll throw him to the UNSC.

“Church went into the memory unit,” he says wearily. “Remember?”

Caboose nods. “Yeah, and you replaced him. It is not that complicated.”

Sometimes Caboose is clearly just babbling— _How sad would it be to not have a brother and to lose a brother all in the same day?_ —but sometimes he talks slower, seems more aware of the world outside of his brain. This is one of those times.

“Have there been other Churches?” Wash asks.

“Yeah,” says Caboose. “There was Church, who was my _best friend ever,_ but his body fell out of the jeep and I lost him. And then there was Church, who lived inside the memory unit and listened to my stories, and then he was a robot, and then he went back into the memory unit. And then there was you.”

_I’m not Church,_ Wash wants to howl, but Caboose is staring at him like—like—

Like he has a place on Blue Team. One that means something.

“And now my helmet is stuck and it is your job to get it off,” Caboose goes on. “Because you are Church.”

“Wait,” says Wash. “Seriously?”

But as he wrestles Caboose’s helmet from off his armor, and deals with the chewing gum smeared inside the locking mechanism, he’s . . . grateful.

Pretending to be Leonard Church—Alpha or Epsilon—makes Wash’s skin crawl. Cleaning up after Caboose isn’t exactly fun. But it’s _something._ It’s a reason for them to keep him on Blue Team and out of prison, and Wash isn’t a bit less desperate than he was when he teamed up with his friend’s walking corpse and shot Donut.

He can stand being Church. 

He _will_ be Church.

 

3.

After Wash leads Blue Team to victory a three times in a row, he starts to relax. He knows, and he knows they all know, that the war games are pointless. But Sarge is just as dedicated to the complete and utter destruction of Blue Team as before, and Tucker enjoys making the Reds sing embarrassing songs to get their flag back, and Caboose is just happy to be on a mission with “Church.”

So it works for them.

Wash avoids thinking about how it can’t last, just like he avoids thinking about how he got here and why Simmons won’t talk to him. For once in his life, he’s not brooding about the past, and he’s not desperately crawling towards the future. He’s just—

Making coffee in the mornings. Watching Caboose tinker with the jeep. Putting out the fires Caboose starts in the kitchen and then feeding everyone MREs. Saying, “Yeah, buddy,” even when he doesn’t fully understand what Caboose is saying. 

It’s . . . not exactly good. 

But it’s the longest, most peaceful stretch of _not bad_ that he can remember having in a very long time. 

There’s only one thing wrong, really, and it’s Tucker. Not at first, when he just avoids Wash. But as time goes on—Tucker hangs around them a little more, but he’s always giving Wash these weird, resentful looks that send little sparks of adrenaline down Wash’s spine, because _he could call the UNSC._

Wash tries. He leads them on another raid and they win, again. He cleans the base. He banishes Caboose from the kitchen and manages to cook their meager supplies into an actual dinner, complete with mashed potatoes.

But something’s still wrong, and it’s more than just Tucker’s initial wariness, his protectiveness for Caboose. Wash can see it getting worse as they eat dinner together, the way Tucker’s mouth slants down and his shoulders tense and he’s hardly even eating.

It’s getting worse, but Wash has no idea what to do.

“Well,” Caboose says cheerfully, “I think that maybe tomorrow, me and Church—”

“He’s _WASH_ , you moron,” Tucker snaps suddenly, slamming his fork down on the table. “Get that fucking straight.”

_Fuck,_ Wash thinks, hardly daring to breathe. _This is it._

“Uh,” says Caboose, “I think you mean Church.”

“No, I mean Agent fucking Washington, the asshole who shoots people for no reason.”

There’s a buzzing in Wash’s ears. He can hear the memory of Simmons screeching, the sound of Donut’s body hitting the ground.

_I had to,_ Wash thinks dizzily, _I had to, he was in my way, I couldn’t go back to prison._

But—

He’d ended up headed for prison anyway, and it was only Caboose’s begging that saved him, and now he can’t miss the way Simmons is still scared around him, the way Grif always positions himself between them.

He can’t miss, either, the gaping hole on Blue Team where Alpha and then Epsilon used to be.

In that instant, Wash desperately wishes that he really _was_ Church. That he wasn’t the kind of person who did those things.

“No, he is Church,” Caboose explains patiently, “because Church is Blue Team captain.”

Tucker starts to rise from his seat. “Call him that ONE MORE TIME—”

Wash starts to rise too, raising his hands placatingly, because he can’t let this turn into a fight. Not with Caboose in the middle. “Look, Tucker, I know it’s weird, but if it’s easier for Caboose—”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Tucker snaps. “Church was my best friend.”

“He left,” says Caboose, his voice soft and final.

There’s a moment of shocked, frigid silence. Tucker’s mouth is open, but he doesn’t say anything.

“ _Church_ is the one who stays and takes care of us,” Caboose goes on. “Epsilon left because he liked the mean lady better. It’s not us, it’s him. I realize this is hard for you to understand, Tucker, because you are kind of dumb. But it is time for us to move on.”

Wash looks at Tucker and—shit, are those _tears_ in his eyes?

“Fuck you,” Tucker chokes out, and bolts.

With a sigh, Wash sinks back into his chair, and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m never making dinner again,” he mumbles.

“Well, _I_ thought your mashed potatoes were delicious,” says Caboose, patting him on the shoulder.

 

4. 

His fever has broken.

Wash knows this, because the floor isn’t rocking underneath him, and when he looks up, the ceiling doesn’t look like it’s bubbling and seething.

Yay.

He still feels awful: aching all over and exhausted in a way he hasn’t been since he was in the hospital recovering from South’s bullets. When the gunk in his lungs makes him convulse with coughing, he wishes bitterly that the healing unit could help with a virus. 

But no. He’ll just have to lie in this bed and suffer for a few more days. Hopefully Caboose won’t burn down the base in the meantime.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHURCH!”

Wash sits bolt upright in bed, scrabbling for the pistol he usually keeps under his pillow—it’s not there—before he realizes that he isn’t being attacked. It’s just Caboose and Tucker, carrying a cake.

A _birthday cake,_ with candles burning. Wash wonders if he’s still hallucinating.

“See, Tucker?” says Caboose. “I told you he was well enough.”

“Do you mean _too sick to run away?”_ Tucker asks. He puts his hand on Wash’s forehead. “Yeah, okay, I guess you won’t die.”

“What . . . is this?” Wash asks fuzzily.

“Look, I know,” says Tucker, and puts a cup of orange juice in his hands. Wash wraps his fingers around the cool glass. “But Caboose really wanted to do this on your actual birthday, so . . . just have a bite of cake and I’ll get you some chicken soup. I make the _best_ chicken soup.”

“Um,” says Wash. The last thing he remembers Tucker saying him—before he got sick—was _Fuck off, Washington._

“It’s not my birthday,” he says finally, because—because he’s _Church_ now, and he knows (remembers) that Leonard Church was born on September 21st.

( _Welcome to the world, Epsilon. Today is your birthday,_ and that was timestamp 3/12/2559 17:51:33 UTC.)

“Umm, I think you lost track of time while you were sick, Church,” says Caboose. “It is May 1st, and that is your birthday.”

“Yeah, Simmons hacked the Freelancer records,” says Tucker. “That’s how we know your birthday and that you used to—”

“OKAY TIME TO SING NOW,” Caboose interrupts.

They sing. They’re completely off-tune. They sing, _Happy birthday to Church,_ but it’s on Wash’s real birthday, _David’s_ real birthday, and he—

He doesn’t know what to think about that.

After they finish singing, Tucker cuts the cake, and hands Wash a slice. Wash stares at it, remembering the time that Caboose tried to use powdered sugar instead of flour.

“C’mon, man,” says Tucker, “it’s safe. I cooked it.”

So Wash takes a bite. It’s a chocolate cake, fluffy and rich and absolutely delicious, and he can hardly taste it because his brain keeps repeating Tucker’s words: _It’s safe. I cooked it._

He’s pretty sure that a week ago, Tucker wouldn’t have so much as opened a package of crackers for him, and he certainly wouldn’t have tried to soothe Wash’s fears about Caboose’s cooking.

He slants a quizzical look up at Tucker.

And Tucker sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, so . . . you’re really pathetic when you’re sick, and I guess I felt sorry for you? Also, uh. You kinda talked a lot when you were delirious. And, uh . . .”

“He means that he realized you were Church,” says Caboose. “Took him long enough. Stupid Tucker.”

 

5.

Carolina’s alive. 

Carolina’s _alive._

_Carolina_ is alive.

One part of Wash’s brain is still stuck on that fact, still gibbering over and over that _she was dead she was dead I was the last—_

—and one part of him is snarling _why the FUCK didn’t she come back for me?—_

—but he’s got that mostly locked away now, in the back part of his mind where he keeps the broken, jagged memories that aren’t his.

He knows how to put his insanity aside and deal with a crisis, and right now, Carolina is the crisis. Carolina, and what she’s asked of him. (What he’s not sure he could refuse even if he wanted to.)

“She wants to find the Director,” Wash says to Church and Tucker. 

“The what now?” asks Caboose.

“The Director of Project Freelancer,” Tucker says, and Wash can’t read the look that he slants up. “Right?”

“Right,” said Wash. “The one who created the AIs and the Meta and the—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tucker waves a hand. “We got the whole ‘killed my friends, prepare to die’ speech like five times already.”

_I killed_ your _friends,_ Wash thinks, and this time what he feels isn’t guilt but a sort of startled wonder, that they’ve put that aside as he never could.

“I owe Carolina,” he says. “She was my squad leader, and—”

_—six years old, sitting on the lawn with daisies in her hair—_

“She was a friend,” he says firmly, pushing the memories away. “I’m not asking you to help us. It’s not your problem. But she says that she knows where Epsilon is, and she can get him out of the memory unit. That’s how she’s planning to find the Director. If you want to come with us, you’d be, uh—”

He can’t quite bring himself to say, _useful in a fight,_ because he’s seen how they fight. Last time Red Team attacked, Tucker tried to hold them off with his sick dance moves.

Then again, they brought down the Meta.

“You’d be welcome,” he finishes awkwardly. “Or if you don’t want to . . . I’ll come back. With Epsilon. I promise.”

He stops, and waits for Caboose’s disappointment, Tucker’s anger. Because he knows his promise isn’t enough, he’s going to lose the only place he can still belong—but he can’t refuse Carolina, he _can’t—_

“Okay,” says Tucker. “Let’s go.” He grins at Wash. “Like I’m gonna let _you_ be the one who has frenzied pre-battle sex with Carolina.”

“ _What?”_ Wash’s voice cracks. He can feel his brain physically trying to eject the memory of Tucker’s words. 

“Plus, the last time you went on a road trip with a Freelancer buddy, you ended up nearly dead,” says Tucker.

“Yeah,” says Caboose. “And we already agreed you could skip dying, even though it’s part of the job. So we are coming with you, Church.”

Wash stares at them, and he can’t believe this is happening, he can’t believe it’s so easy, _nobody ever chooses him—_

“Thanks, guys,” he mutters. “Thanks.”

 

1.

Everything’s so fucked-up.

Wash stands watch, staring into the sunset. He’s pretty sure the Reds and Blues won’t put up with Carolina for much longer—and they shouldn’t, it’s not like they owe her _anything—_

But Wash owes her so very much, and he doesn’t know how he can turn on her. 

Even though he also owes the Reds and Blues everything.

“Sneaking . . . sneaking . . . sneaking . . .”

Wash sighs, and looks over his shoulder. “Hello, Caboose.”

“Hello, Agent Washington,” Caboose stage-whispers, and the name sends a pang through him. Because he’s not Church anymore. They _have_ a Church, _their_ Church, one who never shot or kidnapped any of them. 

One who deserves to be with them.

“Caboose, you _know_ you’re supposed to be in the temple with the rest of your squad,” Wash says.

Not his squad. Not anymore.

“Um, yes—well, um—but you see, um,” Caboose’s voice drops lower, “ _I am spying on you_.”

Wash sighs again. It hurts, to be reminded that they don’t trust him anymore, that he’s not one of them anymore, that he was _never_ one of them. But he chose this.

“Why are you spying on me, Caboose?” he asks wearily, turning to face Caboose.

“Well, yes, um, since everyone is kind of scared of you and Carolina, we figured we should try and get as much information on you guys as possible, so um . . . where do you guys see yourselves in the next five to ten years?”

_You and Carolina._

_Everyone is scared._

He’s lost it, all the fragile trust he built with the Reds and Blues when they were hiding together and they had no future. Wash knows that, and the knowledge is tearing him apart—but he also feels a tremendous rush of affection, because—well, _Caboose._

“Caboose,” he says kindly, “you realize that when you spy on someone, no one's actually supposed to know that you're spying on them, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” says Caboose. “I just figured _you wouldn't tell anyone.”_

“Wait,” says Wash. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh come on, Agent Washington—I mean I—you know, I'm pretty sure that we can trust you?” says Caboose. “I mean we _are_ friends.”

He turns and ambles off as Wash stares at him in stunned amazement.

Wash hasn’t been “Church” since they pulled Epsilon out of the memory unit. He assumed that meant he was downgraded to being just another Freelancer, one of the interlopers that the Reds and Blues had to defend themselves against. But—

“Friends,” Wash mutters, and feels the center of his world start to shift.


End file.
